Witch Hunter Bane
by The Nut Tree
Summary: "All beings that fall into Madness and use it for evil deserve to die. It is their destiny to be cleansed from this world. Evil, fear the Witch Hunter..." The chapter 'Hatred of the City' could be a one-shot.  Be cool and prove you have a soul by resonating with this fic. It won't disappoint.
1. Prologue

Story Disclaimer: I don't own Soul Eater or Soul Eater's characters.

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><p><strong>CHAPTER ONE — PROLOGUE<strong>

Every witch is influenced by a naturally destructive instinct known as the Sway of Magic. Some feel this evil tug stronger than others, but hardly any witches are able to resist this instinct.

Within the tomes of the ancient Witch Library, the annals of times long past can still be read, the now-faded words barely decipherable.

Some four thousand years before the current era, the records make a mention of a juvenile witch of a mere several centuries who, during one of the Witch Masses, had openly rejected the sacred laws that were set forth by the First Witch Queen.

After the young witch escaped the outraged Mass attendees, the records regarding her existence are illegible for nearly a century. When the witch is finally mentioned again, full pages of text are dedicated to cursing her. Careful examination of the hatred scrawled across the page reveals that she was named Hecate, and that she had performed numerous unprecedented transgressions against her own kind. Page after page, year after year, Hecate continued to commit crimes against all witches, until it was finally declared by the current Witch Queen that Hecate would need to be brought to justice. The punishment was death.

The crime was the murder of at least twenty-three witches and the attempted murder of four others.

And so, for the first time, witches were organized into squads, determined to work together against a common enemy, forming the most formidable army the world had ever known.

Hecate's location was discovered within a year. The Witch Queen seized the opportunity before her enemy could flee and ordered the three closest squads to attack. The annals of that era show the decision to attack before amassing a greater force would prove to be a costly mistake.

The single survivor was barely able to recount what happened before succumbing to her injuries. By order of the Witch Queen, her exact words were recorded and placed in the archives:

"_We had her surrounded and…outnumbered. One squad circled above Hecate in…skies. Make sure she wasn't…wouldn't be…to get fly away. My squad and another…other squad surrounded her on the ground. It was easy. She didn't even try to run, either. Just stood there, not running…easy. She looked…scared, on her face. Scared. Surrounded by…surrounded…_

"_We attacked…easy. She only managed to kill…one of us. She…pathetic. We…her. Tortured. All of us, even…were flying…came down. …Circle. Middle…she crawled around. We were all yelling…hurting…her. She…covered…blood everywhere… Eventually, she curled…ball. We…yelling and…hit…kicking. She…still…_

"_About…take her head. Kill her, but…wavelength got all…twis-twisted…"_

_[The patient has fallen unconscious.]_

_[…]_

_[Witch Queen has given us permission to attempt to force her into a semi-aware state. If the procedure is successful, her chances of survival will be significantly decreased. If it fails, she will die.]_

_[…]_

_[Success. She is panicking and confused, but she is talking coherently nonetheless. She does not seem to remember that she had begun to tell us what had occurred. When we inquired about the Hecate's wavelength, she appeared frightened and began to babble. We are trying to calm her down so she can continue describing the events regarding the encounter with the Hecate.]_

_[…]_

"_Her wavelength was ebbing as we continued to torture her. She even stopped screaming whenever we hit her particularly hard. The ground was slick with blood. One of the squad leaders finally had the sense to stop us. She stepped forward and was about to take off Hecate's head using magic. It was then when I sensed the Hecate's wavelength shiver. That's when she sat up—she moved so quickly…but it seemed as if she were a puppet. Her body…was limp when she sat up. Since her head was bowed and her hair was…heavy with blood, it hung in front of…of her face, so I wasn't able to see her…face._

"_Slowly…head still bowed, Hecate turned her head towards our sister who was…about to strike Hecate down. Seeing Hecate moving again, it…angered her somehow. The squad leader s-screamed her mantra. Before she could re…lease…the spell, Hecate…was in the air…don't know how…above and over our circle…jumping clear over the squad leader…landing next to…soul. The sister she had…killed. She ate it. The soul. We were…shocked…_

"_Whenever she killed one of us before…always…soul there still. All…ways. We were angry…then. All of us ran at Hecate, chanting…mantras. But Hecate…disappeared…. Her shadow…moved…. Got darker. Black void. It surrounded her, protecting… I felt…her wavelength…strong… Hecate was consumed…Madness! Disappeared…swallowed up by the darkness…into the ground. Could feel…everywhere…Madness… She…behind us…attacking. Disappears… Appears… Kills. Attacks with shadows…everywhere! No escape…Madness…Hecate…"_

_[Coroner's report: the patient's most likely cause of death was the combination of extreme blood loss and trauma, although I'm certain that the experimental procedure that was performed to force her into an unnatural conscious state played a role as well. The autopsy revealed that she was also suffering from shattered bones in her right arm and both of her legs, as well as numerous puncture wounds of various depths to her torso and limbs.]_

_[Including this patient, the casualties of the conflict between the three witch squads and Hecate now number twelve.]_

_[…]_

_[It seems that Witch Queen will soon dismantle the squads and call off the search for Hecate. If Hecate has indeed become one with the Madness and she continues to consume souls, she will become a Kishin. It would be wise to let her be, just in case. The Witch Queen is not willing to sacrifice any more of her sisters to bring justice to such an abomination.]_

The witch known as Hecate had finally submitted to the Sway of Magic that all Magic Users experience. But, alas, Hecate had ignored the influence of the Madness for so long that when she finally grew too weak to ignore its siren's call, she became absorbed by it. Although her wavelength was corrupted from the instability of the Madness, she miraculously was able to retain both her sanity and her beliefs regarding her own kind.

Not much is known about Hecate after she had escaped. It is said that she was found by a local, who took her in and treated her wounds. As he nursed her back to strength, she never once forgot her reasons for temporarily allowing the power of the Madness to flow into her body, nor did she cast aside her beliefs. Eventually the witch came to realize that she had fallen in love with the human who had cared for her.

Hecate gave birth to an innocent little girl—a witch. Years passed. Hecate's husband passed away, and the child grew slowly older. Hecate came to the realization that her daughter was able to resist the Madness, just as she was able to do.

The beliefs held by one were passed down to another, from mother to daughter.

Hecate trained her daughter for the rest of her life, which was cut unexpectedly short. One morning, the young witch awoke to find that her mother had committed suicide in the night—the Madness that Hecate had battled for so many years had worn down her spirit and body to the point where she could no longer repress it. The young witch was devastated by her mother's unexpected death.

Still, she was determined to take her mother's place: armed with only her magic, her beliefs, and her witch mother's surname, the new witch went out into the world to earn her place as the next Hecate.

The young witch would have made her mother proud. She killed many of her own kind in the name of her beliefs. No witch army was ever established to hunt down this new witch hunter, for fear of history repeating itself. Centuries passed, and the young witch grew older. Soon she felt the call of Madness, and realized that the Madness that had corrupted her mother's soul was genetic. She searched for a human with a strong soul and mated with him, not out of love, but because of her desire to pass on her beliefs. She gave birth to a daughter and taught her, just as her own mother had done so many years ago.

And so the cycle continued. As each new witch adopted both her mother's surname and beliefs, she would also take an oath to uphold the beliefs even when faced with death, and, when the Sway of Magic began to voice its seductive call, to pass on her knowledge before killing herself.

Each new generation from this bloodline would feel the call of the Madness sooner and sooner. Before long, the witches who held the beliefs of Hecate would only live a few centuries before feeling the call of the Madness. Over time, this bloodline of witches became known by the surname they shared.

Several centuries before the present era, a witch who carried this surname realized her time had come. She gave birth to non-identical twins, both of them witches. One twin was a normal, healthy child, blessed strongly with Magic. The other child, however, was an extreme rarity among witches, albeit not completely unheard-of.

As was tradition, the mother taught her children everything she knew. Before she killed herself, she bestowed upon her children the surname and the destiny that name carried.

Side by side, the twins fought and killed for their beliefs, just as it had always been since the time of Hecate. Alas, it was not meant to last, for while both stood in darkness, only one was destined to walk the path of light—the other would fall prey to the Madness.

In a clash between siblings, Hell holds no candle.

The survivor of the battle would continue to uphold those sacred familial beliefs until the time came to pass on the ancient surname: Bane.

Evil, fear the Witch Hunter.

_All beings that fall into Madness and use it for evil deserve to die._

_It is their destiny to be cleansed from this world._

_And I am the one to do it._

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><p><span>CHAPTER EIGHT — RESCUE<span> (preview)

…

Wallace blinked furiously as the torch roared softly to life. After spending what must have been weeks in the dark, makeshift dungeon, he felt he couldn't wait for his eyes to adjust. As eager as he was to be set free, he was even more curious about the rescuers he had conversed with only a few seconds before. He could tell from the voices that they had to be a man and a woman, but with the light from the torch, he would finally be able to put faces to their voices.

Squinting, he peered out into the illuminated space. The woman—he assumed it was the woman based on her hair alone, since she wore a loose-fitting black coat that obscured most of her figure—was faced away from him, kneeling as she worked on picking the lock of a cell on the other side of the room. The torch lay on the ground next to her; Wallace glanced away from the searing light, deciding instead to search for the woman's companion. With a start, he realized the man was standing not three feet from his opened cell door. Wallace blinked and choked down a startled cry. The man stepped into the cell. "Do you have pockets?" he asked softly. Wallace recognized the voice—it was definitely the male rescuer. He looked the man up and down, slightly taken aback.

He was just a kid. Wallace estimated him to be in his late teens or early twenties—it was hard to tell. His shadow-covered face made it difficult to accurately judge his age: he was a pale white, with cropped black hair and dark bags under steely gray eyes. The face reminded him of a soldier who watched his best friend get killed right in front of him. A nearly skin-tight sleeveless black shirt accentuated his build, Wallace observed. He was muscular, for sure, though not excessively so. Black cargo pants with countless pockets and a pair of black combat boots completed the ensemble.

"_Avez-vous poches?_" he repeated. "Do you have pockets?"

Wallace nodded. The man knelt down beside him and handed the freed prisoner a piece of folded paper.

"Take this. Don't lose it. I want you to lead your fellows out of here, using that tunnel over there." He jerked his head to the left, indicating the direction of the tunnel. "Follow it. Eventually you'll come to a ladder. Once you get outside, find the closest inn and stay there. If we don't find you by the next sunset, call the phone number written here," he whispered, tapping the folded sheet. "This will get you in contact with people who can help you further." The man rose to his feet and made to leave.

"Wait." Wallace's voice cracked. "Wh—"

"Hey, Sven, are you going to help me or not?" a hushed voice called out.

Wallace watched as the woman pranced lightly to the man's side. She was just six inches shorter than the man—Sven, she'd called him. The black trench coat floated gracefully around her, but it seemed too large: the hemline was only barely off the ground. Her coarse sandy-blonde hair was braided into a thick braid that reached to the middle of her shoulder blades. A black bandana was tied behind her head and underneath her braid, most likely to keep stray hairs away from her face. Now that she was closer and facing him directly, Wallace noticed that she was older than Sven—she appeared to be around twenty-three years old. She was tan-skinned and blue-eyed, and she wore nearly identical clothing to Sven except for her top: she sported at gray shirt instead.

She now glared playfully at her companion.

"It seems like you're doing just fine without me, Isabelle," Sven whispered. "Keep working. I'm going to take a look around."

Isabelle crossed her arms and sighed quietly as Sven slipped past her before following him out of the cell. Wallace unfolded the paper and read the number neatly scrawled across the page.

775-424-2564.

…

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><p>APPROXIMATELY SEVEN HOURS EARLIER:<p>

Chapter Two — Hatred of the City

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><p>.<p>

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Posted: June 2011

Updated: 6-12-2012

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Writing is what makes an author happy. Reviews make the author feel important. Asking for more makes the author feel needed and loved. Striving towards that feeling is part of what keeps me writing.

- please don't let me down -


	2. Hatred of the City

**CHAPTER TWO — HATRED OF THE CITY**

The silence of the city was deafening; he hated it. Every footstep echoed so dramatically it seemed to be breaking something greater than just the silence. There was no life at night, no noise. And during the day it was too loud—loud day and silent night. Two sides of the same coin.

He looked skywards, casually observing the clouds before settling his gaze on the yellow moon. He always admired the moon for diligently rising every evening before dropping below the horizon a few hours later, never totally sure whether it would see this side of the world again. But it always did, somehow. He admired the sun for the same reason. However, you couldn't watch the sun for hours on end the way you could with its counterpart.

He loved staring up at the night sky, gazing at the stars as the distinct crescent slowly made its way across the heavens. Here in the city, however, with the smog and the bright lights shining from the distant downtown district, even the brightest stars were barely visible. Without the awing beauty of the countless stars surrounding it, the moon no longer appealed to him. Its ugly face, gazing down, watching him, unblinking—it unnerved him. He always thought that the moon was staring at him alone, scrutinizing his every action under its watchful gaze with its judgmental eye that seemed to stare right through his very soul; the large, toothy grin that dominated its twisted body; how it appeared to always be mutely snickering at him—it is for these reasons why he has come to despise cities. He turned his back to the curved entity that dominated the night sky, trying to escape its eye. His skull prickled constantly; he still felt the moon staring into him. In a futile effort to distract himself, he cast his gaze upon the faraway castle. Even from this distance, he could appreciate the old Gothic-style architecture.

Almost inaudible footsteps echoed from the alley behind him and to the right. He tilted his head so as to hear better. He reached down and unbuttoned a long, thin pocket on the side of his thigh. A leather sheath, sewn into the inside of his pants, housed a combat knife. He slipped two fingers into the pocket and gripped the pommel between the knuckles. While still trying to keep his back to the moon, the man shifted into a stance, with his right shoulder pointing toward the alley, that would allow him to easily defend himself if need be and yet not be considered too aggressive. The footsteps grew louder as the walker steadily drew nearer.

Seconds later, a slender figure emerged from the darkness of the narrow street. Instantly recognizing the silhouetted form, he relaxed and straightened up, fastening the knife-pocket closed. He watched as his companion walked up to him and came to a halt at his side.

"You're late," he said softly.

"Am not!" she hissed. "You're just early."

The man unbuttoned another one of the many pockets of his cargo pants and brandished a tarnishing silver pocket watch with a thin chain attached to its bow. He flicked the lid open with his thumb and, after a quick glance at the face, dangled the device in front of the girl's eyes. "I said we would rendezvous here at one o'clock. You are four minutes late," he said as he returned the device to his pocket.

She opened her mouth as if to protest, but promptly shut it when he raised his eyebrows at her, a shadow of a smile on his face. When she stuck out her tongue at him, he couldn't resist any longer: he smiled—which only caused her to look away in a huff.

"More importantly, did you find anything?" he said, serious once again.

"Nothin' but empty streets," she grumbled.

The man glanced up and leftward. "Ditto for my half," he said. "It seems the humans here are finally catching on that something nasty is out there. I'm surprised nobody has noticed the pattern yet…" He fell silent, pretending to think.

She rolled her eyes, knowing what he was doing. "There was a notice board by one of the entrances," she said. Of course there's no way he would have missed something like that—hell, even _she _saw it.

"Really?" he mused. His observation skills were well-honed through years of practice; naturally, he had seen the sign. He was just testing her observation and language skills—he had high standards that she needed to meet if they were to continue working together. He turned towards her. "What did it say?"

"Something about a district-wide curfew being in effect from sunset to sunrise until the missing persons are found, as issued today by the National Police," she recited wearily. "Then it had a long list of bullshit precautionary measures citizens should take."

He nodded thoughtfully, satisfied with her answer. "Something about the curfew bothers me," he said. "It's almost…disturbing."

Her eyes narrowed. "How is keeping people inside their homes 'disturbing'? Shouldn't that be a good thing?" she replied matter-of-factly. _Another test…?_

"Think about it. Neither of us saw any officers patrolling this district to enforce the curfew. And if the streets of this district are suddenly absent of potential victims, then one of two things could happen: one, the perpetrator could decide to simply break into a house and kidnap someone. Or two, he might head to an adjacent district to hunt." He paused. "If he breaks into a house within this district"—the man spoke firmly—"I'll be able to find him."

"And if he decides to hunt elsewhere?" She looked up at him. His face wore a familiar expression, a mixture of concern and grief and frustration—the mask he wore whenever he was thinking.

"I doubt I would notice it," he said grimly. "This is a big city."

"Any chance the killer wouldn't take a victim tonight?"

"Our target has consistently abducted a single underage person every night for the last week and a half. What do you think?"

"Right…" She spun on her heel and stared up at the moon. "So we just wait around 'til morning, right?" she asked while stifling a yawn.

Unseen by the girl, his expression of utter seriousness eased into one of tender amusement. The corners of his mouth twitched upward as he said, "Your body needs to rest. I'llkeep an eye on the area from that flat roof up there while you get your beauty sleep. Come on." He held his arms out straight, parallel to the ground, forming a large letter 'T' with his body.

She knew better than to argue. Accepting her fate, she grabbed his shoulders and jumped onto his back, quickly wrapping her arms and legs around his neck and waist, respectively. "Are you trying to say I'm ugly?" she whispered in his ear as she placed her chin in the crook between her arm and his neck.

He started walking towards an alleyway—the opening was probably only just wide enough for a car to fit into—on his left. The murky darkness of the alley loomed in front of them threateningly, almost like it was warning them to stay away. His footsteps bounced loudly around them as he broke into a run. An instant later, they were swallowed up by the shadows. He blinked and his eyes instantly adjusted; it was something he had been born with, so natural that he stopped noticing when it happened.

With perfect timing, he leaped—and planted his feet square on the wall of the alley. He quickly twisted his body around so he was facing the opposite wall, and he jumped again, propelling himself upward and landing squarely once again, using his arms to stay balanced. He continued to jump from one wall to the other within the narrow space. Within seconds, he had landed on the flat roof of the five-story building.

"Not at all," he said as she slid off of him. "It's just that when children don't get enough sleep they get cranky."

"Is that a gray hair I see?" she teased back.

"You're one to talk," he retorted as he sat down and stretched his legs straight out. He leaned against the convenient series of pipes which were acting as chimneys for the apartments below; one of the pipes had wisps of smoke still lazily emerging from the top. As she sauntered over to him, he watched as the smoke was whisked away by the wind that had been absent when they were on the ground.

"Ok, pops," she yawned as she sat down next to him. Automatically, she curled up on her side and placed her head on his thigh in such a way so she was staring at his boots.

As another gust of wind sent the smoke into oblivion, he felt his companion shiver. He unbuttoned one of the bulging pockets of his black cargo pants and retrieved a carefully-folded mass of black fabric. He flipped his wrist, unfolding the duster in a single motion. He carefully placed the coat on her slender frame like a blanket, which she gratefully accepted without a word.

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><p><em>Isabelle covered her mouth and nose with her hand and held her breath as she hid under her cot. She winced as another scream was cut short from the other side of the room. An instant later, a gentle blue light illuminated the room as an orb appeared. Isabelle knew she shouldn't look, but she couldn't help it—almost as if a supernatural force was pushing her to watch. The distinct flavor of bile burned in her mouth when she saw the numerous bodies of her friends surrounded by oceans of their blood. She stared past their silhouetted forms in horror as the humanoid creature reached out with a bloody hand and carefully grabbed the orb. After staring into it for a second, he wrapped his tongue around the sphere and swallowed it whole. As the room was plunged into semidarkness once again, Isabelle whimpered and squeezed her eyes shut. It took her several seconds to realize an unnatural silence had settled upon the room. Isabelle opened a single eye and squinted through the darkness.<em>

_A small noise on her right caused her to jump slightly. Slowly, she turned her head, eyes now wide with fear. A pair of bloody feet were mere inches from her face. She whimpered again as tears began to stream down her already tear-streaked face. Her cot was thrown off of her; it slammed into the far wall, but she hardly noticed the crash. She could only watch, paralyzed with fear, as a face obscured in shadow drew close to her own. It sniffed—and instantly froze. It sniffed again and looked at the single shuttered window in the room. It eased itself upright and cocked its head to the side._

_The window shattered inward a split second later—blasting shards of glass and pieces of the wooden shutters in every direction—as a figure launched itself into the room. The creature tilted his head and watched as the figure stood up and brushed bits of glass off his clothing._

_The thing growled, as if it were questioning the explosive intrusion. The man grunted smugly in response as he brushed himself off; bits of glass rained down from his clothes onto the bloody moonlight-kissed floor. The creature released a groaning scream and it leaped right at the man, reaching for his throat. With perfect timing, the man let his knees buckle, placing his hands on the ground behind him for support before unleashing a devastating kick to the creature's chin. The force of the kick drove the thing into the ceiling, causing the wood to splinter. As the creature began to fall back to the floor, the man slipped into a crouch. He jumped whilst twisted his body; in midair, he dealt a powerful roundhouse kick, launching the creature into the wall opposite the window, before landing gracefully on his feet._

_The man began to walk towards the dazed creature. As he was crossing the room, he mouthed something that Isabelle couldn't make out. He raised a hand, palm up. A pool of darkness formed underneath the fiend. The darkness began to bubble as black tendrils crawled upward and began wrapping themselves around the creature, causing it to go into a furious state of panic: it screamed and tried to rip the tendrils off, but the effort was wasted. In a matter of seconds, the creature was consumed by the darkness._

_Eerie silence now lay heavily on the room as the man raised a hand, pointing all five of his fingers at the cocoon of void. Isabelle jumped slightly as tendrils shot from his fingers into the cocoon, emerging from the other side. The finger-tendrils began to retract and the cocoon started to dissolve. Entire hardened chunks of void broke off and fell to the floor, where they liquidized and disappeared into the cracks of the floorboards. Only the kneeling creature remained, but not for long: its body began to distort into a swirling mass of darkness that quickly dissipated until all that was left was a glowing, dark-red orb._

_The man rummaged through one of his pockets, eventually removing a white crystalline amulet. He held the gem in his hand and moved it closer to the orb, without physically touching the sphere itself. When the amulet was about three inches away from the orb, the gem began to change to a dark gray color. The sphere was drawn closer and, similar to a black hole, it contorted and was sucked into the amulet. A few seconds later, the crystal returned to being a pure white color._

_Isabelle stared at her savior with cautious awe. She couldn't move; she couldn't think. She could only watch as he returned the amulet to his pocket. For the first time since his arrival, he acknowledged her. "You're lucky that I was camping out nearby." He began to walk towards her slowly, removing his long coat as he did. Isabelle watched him get closer with an increasing feeling of fear. By the time he stopped in front of her, tears were once again streaming uncontrollably down her cheeks._

_As the man bent over at the waist, leaning towards her, a feeling of dread washed over her and she closed her eyes, whimpering softly. She started when something heavy fell on her shoulders. She opened one eye and realized that the man had placed his coat over her shoulders. She looked up and saw that he was now crouching in front of her. What surprised her was that he was smiling warmly. She liked his face. It was a kind face._

"_What's your name?" he asked gently._

_She drew a blank. "…I can't remember," she said breathlessly._

"'_I-can't-remember?' That's kind of a silly name." It took her a moment to comprehend his words._

_She giggled slightly. His friendly grin got bigger. "There we go! That's better, right? Well, I-can't-remember, are you hurt at all?" She shook her head. "Good." He looked sincerely relieved. "I'm glad I was able to make it. Saving one person is better than none, right?" She glanced around at the bloody bodies of her friends. Reality was still sinking in. A hand was suddenly hovering in front of her face. She looked up at the man. "Come on." His face was kind. She took his hand. He pulled her to her feet; she only came up to his __midriff__._

"_Close your eyes, ok?" He winked at her. Warily, she did as he asked. "Keep them closed for now, ok? You have to trust me." She gasped as she was suddenly lifted off the ground. She almost opened her eyes, but she remembered what he said, so she didn't. Instead, she grabbed a fistful of his shirt and buried her face in his chest. Yes, she was afraid to die. She was afraid of what he may do to her. Not being able to see made it unbearable._

"_Hold on," he said. "We are going for a little ride."_

_Before she could ask, she felt the sensation of falling. She gasped and opened her eyes, but before she could scream, the sensation had already stopped. She looked around and saw the man's face and, realizing he was still holding her, she relaxed again._

"_Hey, you opened your eyes!" he chided playfully. She quickly squeezed them shut. "I'll tell you when you can open them…you can open your eyes now." She slowly opened her eyes; the confused expression on her face made him chuckle softly. "The scary part was jumping out of the hole in the wall. It's smooth sailing from here." She craned her neck in an effort to look behind him. Her eyes widened as she remembered she had been sleeping on the second story. Her bewildered expression made the man smile tenderly. "All you have to do is relax and try to get some sleep. I will take care of you until we find a safe place for you to stay."_

_She nodded wearily and let her body go limp. She glanced around, briefly looking at the trees and the stars above her. She listened to the crunch of his boots as he walked down the gravel path that connected the orphanage to the main road. The steady sound of his footsteps soothed her burdened mind. She snuggled up against his chest. It felt good to be handled so carefully, and she was so tired. The feeling of being gently held in his arms, combined with the swaying as he walked, made her sleepy._

_She was dozing when he stopped. She rolled over awkwardly in his arms and rubbed her eyes sleepily. "I am going to put you down for now, ok?" She nodded and he set her on her feet. She stumbled a little, but the man helped to balance her. Still rubbing one of her eyes, she looked around. She was standing at the top of a hill in a place that she didn't recognize. She couldn't see any signs of civilization at all; all she saw was a sea of trees and the stars. She turned around and saw the man sitting against a tree. He motioned for her to sit next to him._

"_How old are you?" he asked after she sat down._

_She yawned. "Six and three-quarters."_

"_Wow, you are almost as old as I am!"_

"_How old are you?" She slid her head down into his lap. He helped her cover up her legs with his coat, which was still draped around her shoulders. As he was tucking the edges of the coat underneath her fragile little body, he replied:_

"_Two hundred and seventy-seven."_

"_Liar."_

_He laughed. It was a good, hearty laugh. It was another thing she liked about him. She stared at his boots as his laughter died down. After sighing, he fell silent for a few moments._

"_I love the country!" he whispered. "The sounds and the fresh air…and how all the stars seem to shine just for you. Do you like the country?" She nodded as best she could, since she was using his thigh as a pillow. He started to rub her back soothingly. She could feel her eyelids getting heavy. "Then what say you and I be friends, hmm?"_

_She nodded again. "My name's Isabelle."_

_He smiled. "Isabelle, huh? I find that a much nicer name than 'I-can't-remember'. Nice to meet you, Isabelle. My name is—" he hesitated. "My name is Bane."_

"_Bane…" Isabelle slurred as she drifted off to sleep._

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><p>Isabelle opened her eyes. As she sat up, the duster slid off her shoulder.<p>

"What's up? Do you have to pee?"

She glanced at him and slid backwards until she was propped up against the pipes. She pulled her knees to her chest and wrapped her arms around her legs. "No…" She leaned her head against his shoulder.

"Nightmare?" he asked, genuinely concerned.

"Only at first." They sat there in silence together, staring at the castle in the distance. "Hey, Sven?"

"Yeah?"

"Thanks for taking me in."

He put an arm around her shoulders. "You dreamed about the orphanage again?" he asked quietly. It had taken her years before she finally was able to talk to him about the details of what happened that night…how the director of the orphanage strayed from the human path and began eating the souls of the children living under his care.

She nodded. They sat in silence for a while.

He snickered lightly. "Remember when you and I first introduced ourselves…? You were so cute and innocent back then."

"'Back then'? You mean I'm not anymore?"

"Cute? Eh…sure, why not," he teased. "But your innocence died long ago."

His words hung in the air around them before being blown away by a chilly gust. Isabelle shivered and pulled the duster up around her body, tucking the hem under her chin. They sat like that for a time, the comfortable silence between them broken only by an occasional blast of wind.

"Be back in a moment," Sven mumbled. Isabelle felt his body tense up. She was beginning to drift off again when he went limp and inhaled sharply.

Isabelle raised her head off his shoulder. His face was serious. "What is it?"

"It seems our target decided to show up after all," he said breathlessly.

Isabelle grinned and stood up. "Let's get going, then!"

Sven extended his hand. "Help me up. My legs are numb."

Slapping her hand into his, she pulled him to his feet. He groaned as he stretched his aching limbs. Isabelle took the coat off her shoulders and handed it to him. With a flourish, he put it on and fastened the top four buttons, leaving the rest of the coat to hang open. As he did this, he looked up at the moon. It was significantly lower in the sky now, but there were still about two hours before sunrise. Red blood oozed out from between the teeth of its grin. _Damn, I hate the city._

He turned to Isabelle. "Ready?"

"Always."

"Then hop on."

She jumped onto his back, wrapping her arms around his neck and her legs around his waist. Without a word, Sven broke into a run and leapt across the gap between the buildings. He didn't so much as blink as his feet touched the adjacent rooftop. Instead, he increased his speed even more, determined to make it in time and, perhaps, save a life.

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><p>.<p>

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Posted: 5-18-2011

Updated: 6-12-2012

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Thank you for reading this.

Writing is what makes an author happy. Reviews make the author feel important. Asking for more makes the author feel needed and loved. Striving towards that feeling is part of what keeps me writing.

- please don't let me down -


	3. To Find a Soul

**CHAPTER THREE — TO FIND A SOUL**

The wind brushed against his face, cooling his cheeks. A soft light caressed his body, but he dared not glance up, perchance to see the moon's grotesque features. Instead, he leaned over the edge of the roof and peered into the empty street below. Although streetlamps had been installed at one time, they were unlit. This was a relatively poor district, after all; the inhabitants could not afford the taxes necessary to pay for such a luxury as well-lit streets.

Straightening up, Sven closed his eyes and reached out with his sixth sense. Inhaling deeply, he visualized a glowing orb surrounded by an endless white emptiness. Releasing the pent-up breath, he imagined a black cloud emanating from the orb's core. As he did, he could feel his mind's eye beginning to open; as the darkness spread outward, his mind's eye opened farther and farther. For the first few seconds, he could only see his own pulsating soul contained within a humanoid black form—his body.

The darkness gathered at his feet before pooling outwards. It spilled over the sides of the roof he was standing on, dripping down the side of the building; trickling over windowsills; working its way through the cracks of shutters; spreading throughout every room in every apartment of the building; the darkness crept over everything, forming vaguely recognizable shapes for him to guess at. The darkness crept over sleeping bodies, completely covering the people in the building below him. As each human was enveloped by the intangible substance, a blue soul would appear, shining amongst the pitch black surroundings as seen by his mind's eye.

The most difficult part was starting, but once the cloud began to surge outward, it spread like wildfire. The darkness flooded across the streets and up the neighboring buildings before invading the many rooms of the aforementioned structures. He quickly expanded the range until he was able to see everything—focusing on nothing in particular—within a five-block radius: that was his limit. It would be bad if he pushed himself too hard. Sven, knowing his limits intimately, forced the darkness up instead of continuing to expand it any farther.

It took only a few seconds for the black wall to appear over the rooftops. The darkness gradually slowed to a steady crawl across the sky as the edges began to come together, forming a black dome above him. Sven felt no anxiety when the dome was completed, despite the illusion of being trapped in a seemingly-endless black void. Within the dome, however, hundreds of human souls bathed the void with gentle blue light. Sven altered the perspective of his mind's eye, so he could peer down from a bird's-eye view.

Near the top of the dome, Sven looked for a point of reference below him. The numerous blue pinpricks within the void reminded him of a moonless, star-lit night sky. After admiring the scene for a moment, Sven found his reference point almost directly under him—a golden-yellow orb. _"Isabelle's soul,"_ he thought. Although he couldn't see it from this distance, he knew that her soul was surrounded by a faint lime-green outline.

Sven visualized a giant clock face—like that of his pocket watch—on the ground within the black dome. He drew two imaginary lines from Isabelle's soul to the edge of the dome, representing two hours of the clock face—twelve o'clock and one o'clock. Within that thin area of the dome, Sven searched from soul to soul, scrutinizing the sliver for any anomalies. Finding nothing out of the ordinary, he drew another line to represent two o'clock. Again, he searched the area between the two lines, this time examining the space between one and two o'clock.

Again, he didn't find what he was looking for.

His systematic search continued. As each of the slivers consistently yielded nothing, the feeling of self-doubt began to emerge, dulling his senses. As he neared the completion of the area between the lines designating seven and eight o'clock, he felt the burden of self-doubt wash away. Sven, with his inborn night vision, was able make out a shadowy figure as it crept down one of the narrow side streets near the edge of the dome. The dark red orb in the center of its chest, combined with the fact that it was moving, made the figure stick out like a sore thumb among the city of stationary blue souls.

It was moving unhurriedly but cautiously, as if it was afraid of being discovered. Sven watched as the humanoid swiftly crept across the street before it halted in front an apartment building near the edge of the dome. It paced back and forth in the gutter several times before sitting back on its haunches. An instant later, it performed a gravity-defying leap, landing not ungracefully on the window ledge. The figure reached down and pulled open the third-story window and slipped inside.

Within the dome, Sven's eyes could see everything. The walls of the apartment building may have hidden the creature's form, but the red sphere marked its location—as well as the soul of its target: it burned blue-white with the unsoiled innocence that only a child would have.

Sven closed his eyes and imagined his clothes were made of lead. As he exhaled through pursed lips, he visualized his body underwater, sinking deeper as his heavy garments pulled him to the imaginary ocean floor. After being weightless within his dome, the pressure from the water above him felt all the more intense. He did this often enough, though, and forced himself to remain calm. Panicking while attempting to return to his body could result in his metaphorical drowning. However much his lungs burned and his joints ached from the pressure, he had to remain in control of his instincts. He had to remain completely still…

The timing was perfect: the precise moment his lungs were spent of air, his feet touched the bottom. Sven snapped open his eyes and gasped for air. The rooftops of the cityscape stretched before him, dimly silhouetted by the moonlight. He put his hands on his knees to support himself as he hunched over trying to catch his breath. He focused on the toe of his boot, trying to remain conscious as his vision grew dark and blurry; lightheaded, it barely registered to him that his body was beginning to fall towards the dangerously-close edge of the roof. His thoughts were muddled, foggy. His usual quick reaction time was now seemingly non-existent.

Everything was in slow motion. Time itself seemed to be mocking him, toying with his sluggish mind, enjoying the passing milliseconds before he realized he was plummeting to his death, six stories down.

By the time Sven recognized his situation, he was staring at the cobbled road below. Suddenly, his descent was jerked to a halt. The muscles in his neck twinged painfully as his chin smacked into his chest. Pain. The nerves, burning, cleared his mind in an instant. He fell ungracefully on his rear, momentum causing him to roll backwards into Isabelle, knocking her over. Relieved, he allowed his body to go limp. Tilting his head up so he could look his companion in the eyes, Sven thanked her.

"Idiot! I shouldn't be having to save you like this!" she scolded as she shook him by the collar of his trench coat for emphasis.

"Whether or not you should be saving me doesn't change the fact that you did, nor does it lessen my appreciation for your actions." The corners of his mouth turned upward. "So, thanks." Isabelle glanced away, pouting, and let go of his collar.

As he stood up, his temples suddenly began to throb painfully with each heartbeat and he was hit with another bout of lightheadedness. As he waited for his vision to fade back to normal, he wiped away the sweat that glistened on his forehead. Long distance Soul Detection—an advanced Soul Perception technique—was something he had excelled at, but it had the potential to severely weaken him. Straightening up, Sven shook his pounding head in a futile effort to relieve his headache.

Isabelle was waiting expectantly for Sven. She was impatient and tired of waiting—it was time for action. She loved a good fight. She took a plain, black bandana out of her pocket and, folding it once diagonally, placed it on her forehead. Carefully keeping the cloth tight so it wouldn't slip, she tied the ends together at the nape of her neck, underneath her braid. The bandana had seen many purposes, but tonight it kept hair and sweat out of her eyes. She didn't want to miss a single moment of what was to come.

When Sven finally looked over his shoulder at her, a familiar mask of cold seriousness lay upon his features. He jerked his head, a motion that told her it was finally time for what she had been waiting for. A smile slipped across Isabelle's lips, but only for an instant. A wave of giddiness made her body shiver. Limbs shaking with anticipation, she crawled onto Sven's back.

It was time to hunt.

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><p>.<p>

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Posted: Summer 2011

Updated: 1-20-2012

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Thank you for reading this.  
>Writing is what makes an author happy. Reviews make the author feel important. Asking for more makes the author feel needed and loved. Striving towards that feeling is part of what keeps me writing.<p>

- please don't let me down -


	4. Pursuing a Hunch

**CHAPTER FOUR — PURSUING A HUNCH**

The wind whistling past his ears diminished as he reached the climax of his vertical ascent. As his body began to plummet towards the rooftop from which he had just leapt only a second before, Sven swiveled his head as he searched for any sign of movement in the vast city below. A flicker drew his gaze—the flash of a shadow against the gloomy moonlit streets. _There._

Sven continued to focus on the distant street corner where he had seen the target as he calmly dropped down onto the rooftop. He crouched as he landed on the balls of his feet, gracefully absorbing the impact that would have splintered any normal human's legs.

"Nice hang time," Isabelle mumbled as her companion touched down a few feet away. Sven acted like he didn't hear her. Without turning around, he quickly motioned for her. She had hardly wrapped her limbs around him before they were once again flying through the air.

Their quarry had already fled the scene when they had arrived at the apartment. Within seconds, Sven was able to confirm that the creature had not killed the child; like the previous kidnappings, the perpetrator had simply run off with the entire body of the victim. Sven had to jump straight up in an attempt to locate their escaped prey from a higher vantage point. It was less effective than using Soul Perception, of course, but considerably quicker. It was on his second jump that he managed to catch a glimpse of the thing they were after.

So they pursued; for Isabelle, the chase was the worst part of the hunt. The longer the chase went on for, the more irritating it became; the excitement would wear off, fading into overeager frustration and, eventually, mind-numbing boredom. During a hunt, it is ideal to be calm. However, being too calm could prove fatal: you must be alert and focused when on a mission. Keep your body relaxed and your mind sharp. Take everything in, sort all the information. Determine what is useless and what is important; ignore the rubbish and commit everything else to memory. Doing this properly takes years of daily practice to master. But it is a necessary skill to survive traveling with Sven—Isabelle is constantly quizzed on her abilities to memorize such things. And Sven is relentless when it comes to teaching…

Isabelle mentally scolded herself for allowing her mind to wander during a hunt, even if it was during a dreadfully boring chase. The girl gave her tongue a sharp nip to focus her thoughts. Sven would undoubtedly punish her if he ever found out.

Isabelle glanced around as Sven leapt the distance between two rooftops. About a block away, an iron-barred fence marked the edge of their district, and the beginning of another. Mere seconds later, they were crossing into the neighboring district. The gap between the two buildings was much larger this time; with the added weight of Isabelle, Sven almost didn't make the jump. He just barely grasped the edge of the building as he planted his feet on wall, powerful legs absorbing the impact, before pulling himself up in one fluid motion.

Despite bracing herself before the impact, Isabelle's breath still wheezed past her lips from the jarring halt. She hardly begun to inhale before Sven was once again on his feet. She recovered quickly, however, and was surprised to find the ghostly-pale figure—with a bulging burlap sack draped over its shoulder—only a few buildings ahead of them. It only took Isabelle a moment to realize that Sven was no longer attempting to move any closer to the target; Isabelle pondered for several minutes as to why her companion would have chosen to abandon his original pace in order to adopt the speed of the Evil Human. But impatience and curiosity gnawed at her, and she quickly admitted defeat. "Why aren't you trying to catch up with it?" Isabelle breathed into Sven's ear.

Unable to respond in-kind, Sven answered in sign language—the silent dialect—using his right hand to spell out each individual letter only inches away from her nose: "IHAVEAHUNCH," he signed. "STAYQUIETNOMORETALKING."

At one time, she would have been beyond irritated by his vague answer. But time breeds tolerance—she had grown to accept it as a part of who he was. Knowing that wondering about what his hunch was would only cause her more frustration, she simply pushed his words to the back of her mind.

With the chase being the only form of entertainment, her wandering thoughts soon returned…

Yet the pursuit continued on without any foreseeable end, which provided ample time for Isabelle's initial excitement to mature into bored nothings. Once again, her thoughts left the task at hand to frolic aimlessly within the unlimited confines of the mind. And if the mind begins to rest, soon after the body will follow: The tension of her muscles relaxed as she started falling into a sort of sleepy stupor, fueled by her companion's gentle, galloping movements; she didn't even realize it was happening. But Sven did. He sensed the pressure from her tightly-wound limbs slacken and immediately realized that she was on the verge of falling asleep.

His upper lip twitched slightly. _Unacceptable._ As soon as his feet touched the next rooftop, Sven did two front flips, one after the other. Deftly landed on one foot, he propelled himself forward as if he had not just performed an acrobatic feat, but instead had been running uninterrupted since the chase began.

Isabelle gasped silently as the predictable and relaxing leaps and bounds suddenly became a loop-de-loop of terror that, quite literally, turned her world upside down. Fortunately, the years of training with Sven had allowed her to achieve reflexes that bordered on the superhuman—she managed to tighten her loose grip around her companion's body, maintaining her safe position on his back before she was thrown off. …Not that he would actually let her get seriously injured, of course. A short tumble to the unforgiving ground was enough to get his point across. _Damn it!_ She was angry, but not because of what Sven did. No, she had only herself to blame, and she knew it.

A few minutes later, Sven leapt across to another adjacent district. Isabelle was amazed to see how close the castle was now that they were in the same district as the large stone edifice: it loomed in front of them, the battlements and stone gargoyles; the large blue, white, and red flags at the top of each of the four towers; the recognizable Gothic-style architecture—all of it lit up by the receding moon behind them. Suddenly, Sven slowed and began to stalk forward cautiously. Isabelle was instantly on high alert and futilely tried to locate the target. Upon reaching the edge of the building, Sven peeked carefully down into the cobbled road below. Across the street—almost hiding in the shadows of its taller neighbors—was a run-down, abandoned-looking shack. Sven blinked and his eyes adjusted to the gloom.

It was not a shack, but a tavern named _Cockerel's Lair_. The one-story structure seemed to be emanating the vibe of abandonment—broken shutters, boarded-up windows, sunken roof…and a warped front door hanging open, as if some careless person had just entered and failed to shut the door properly. _The ideal den for an Evil Human—abandoned and away from the main roads._

He sniffed the air. _The stench of death does not haunt this place, so…would that mean my suspicions are correct? Could this creature…?_

His grim expression relaxed as his gaze momentarily moved to that of the starry heavens. An eternity of thoughtful deliberation passed in that brief and blissful instant as he considered the possibilities.

_Could this creature…be a marionette?_

His eyes shifted down to the murky street below, a cold seriousness returning to his face.

_If that truly is the case, then I must follow the strings and cut off the hand that holds the crossbar._

* * *

><p>He turned left and right in front of the mirror, inspecting the handsome image that appeared to be scrutinizing him in return. The mirror not only reflected the man's entire upper body, but also the spectacularly decorated corridor in which he stood: suits of traditional weapons and armor and shields bearing the Gilles family crest supposedly used in battles long ago lined the walls; a regal blue carpet padded the floor; golden chandeliers which brightly lit the beautiful hallway at regularly spaced intervals; and exquisitely-framed mirrors were mounted on the walls, perfectly spaced in accordance with the placement of the chandeliers.<p>

The man, satisfied with his appearance, undertook a final—and unnecessary—inspection. He smoothed his shoulder-length chestnut-brown hair with one hand while adjusting the collar on his spotless white blouse with the other, before moving on to the lace which sprouted from his shirt cuffs. Inhaling deeply, he stood up as straight as he could and thrust out his chin proudly. "_Parfait_," he proclaimed quietly to his likeness. Doing his best to maintain that composure, he spun on his heel and strode across the hall to the double doors made of solid oak. He waited for his two dull knocks to finish their faint echoing before he grasped the handles and pulled the doors open. He took three steps towards the innards of the black-as-pitch room, drawing the doors shut behind him as he did. The click of the latches falling into place was a sound that was audible anywhere within the long, extravagant corridor…but not even a single soul was around to hear it.

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><p>.<p>

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Posted: September(?) 2011

Updated: 2-6-2012

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Thank you for reading this.  
>Writing is what makes an author happy. Reviews make the author feel important. Asking for more makes the author feel needed and loved. Striving towards that feeling is part of what keeps me writing.<p>

- please don't let me down -


	5. The Crossbar

**CHAPTER FIVE — THE CROSSBAR**

"Why won't you answer me!" he screamed. "Poitou! Why are you…Poitou…What's—" He choked on his words when a cold metal ring was pressed into his jugular notch.

"Be quiet," Poitou grumbled. "You're giving me a headache." It was only within that close proximity that the man could make out Poitou's features. He was expecting to see an apologetic expression, but what he saw made his heart sink; even insane anger would have been better—at least then the man could justify Poitou's actions by blaming it on that wretched Baron business. What disturbed the man was the look of bored irritation plastered on his mentor's face. And then the pressure subsided.

Poitou removed the barrel of the pistol from the man's throat and receded again into the shadows a few feet away. The man stood there, defeated, staring in utter disbelief at the stranger in front of him. The small oil lamp behind the gun-wielding man cast only enough light to silhouette Poitou's husky form, the figure he always looked up to, a role model. Though both of them were just manservants, Poitou had always seemed bigger than that; he acted superior to all but those he served, yet he willingly offered advice and assistance to any of the other staff, oftentimes with a smile. But now…now he was a different person entirely.

Tears welled up in the man's eyes and his gaze darted around the room. "I don't…b-believe… Why…? I, I, I, I don't… I don't…don't u-understand…" The man began panting heavily as he went into a state of full-blown panic. Poitou's silhouette spun and blurred before his eyes. Hurried taps swirled around the chamber. The tapping grew louder and louder until the man could stand it no longer: he sank to his knees and painfully balled his ears up in clenched fists, sobbing. "Voices, voices…" he gasped out.

"He's hyperventilating again," Poitou grunted as the echoing footsteps slowed and a figure appeared in the doorway. "Hurry up and give him the shot."

The newcomer strode past Poitou and stabbed the needle into the man's thigh. The man's breathing stabilized as the weak sedative began to take effect. His hands fell to his sides and he looked up at the person who gave him the shot. "Henriet…?" he croaked.

"Come on!" Henriet chastised as he grasped the man by the arm, half helping him up, half pushing him backwards to the stone wall.

"Oh!" the man slurred through the sedative when his head smacked against the rough stone behind him. "Henriet, you should be more careful—" He stopped mid-sentence as his gaze drifted over to Poitou's silhouetted form. Adrenaline nullified some of the drugs in his system as everything came rushing back to him. "Henriet! We have to—Poitou is…!" He glanced back and forth between the two men, struggling to comprehend the situation. "Henriet? You and Poitou…" he wailed. A click resounded throughout the room. Slowly, the man turned towards Henriet, who was checking to make sure a nearby chain was securely attached to the wall. "Henriet? Henriet!" he cried out. "It's not too late! Help me! Let me go! I won't tell anybody, I swear, I swear on my life! I won't, promise! Henriet, my colleague, my friend! Save—"

"By god, Padgett! Do you ever shut up?" Henriet shouted. "You have got to be the most annoying person I have ever met! You're loud—you've always been too loud—and whiny…pathetic. You know what the worst thing about you is, the thing that pisses me off the most, ever since I met you? You're so god damn useless." He moved to Padgett's other side and began checking another chain that was hanging from the wall. "…I hate you," he breathed.

In that instant, Padgett froze; his mind went blank; his eyes misted up; his mouth hung open ever-so-slightly. He was in complete, total, utter shock. Two of the people he worked closely with, one of them his mentor, they were…they were…

A tear rolled down his cheek as he stared unblinking into the distance. Another click, right in his ear. He whipped his head towards the sound—towards Henriet—and brought back his fist, poised to strike. But like a dog at the end of the leash, he only ended up hurting himself: he yelped as his forearm flared painfully. Confusion replaced rage as he looked at his arm. Warm blood glistened in the lantern light, trickling down his arm and dripping off his fingertips onto the floor. Loosely clasped around his wrist was a rough-edged shackle. When Padgett tugged experimentally on the restraint, he realized something that alarmed him even further.

He was chained to the wall.

Shaking, Padgett reached out with his other hand towards his wound, only to find a shackle around that wrist as well. He let his arms hang loosely in the air, suspended by the iron restraints. He felt lifeless, dead. With great effort, Padgett raised his head to stare at the ceiling that was hidden in the darkness somewhere above him.

"Have mercy on me, O Lord, for I am in trouble…" he croaked weakly.

"Now what?" Henriet hissed.

"Ignore him," Poitou said. "Hurry up and grab an end. I don't want to be here when he gets back."

"Oui, oui." Henriet took hold of a corner and together the two men shook open the tarp.

"…For I hear the slander of many; fear is on every side," Padgett gurgled on. "While they take counsel together against me, they scheme to take away my life—"

Henriet spun towards the restrained man and took a threatening step forward. "Be quiet," he snarled.

"—But as for me, I trust in You, O Lord—."

"I said to ignore him," Poitou raised his voice over the rustling tarp as he tried to lay it flat, as well as the loudening prayers of the chained man.

"—I say, 'You are my God.' My times are in Your hand…" Padgett cried out to the ceiling. Henriet obeyed his senior and slowly turned back towards the job at hand. "Deliver me from the hand of my enemies, and from those who persecute me." Henriet froze. Poitou stopped flattening the tarp out to glance up at his coworker. "Make Your face shine upon Your servant—"

"What—?" Poitou began to question his companion. Henriet whirled around and advanced towards the praying man.

"Save me for—"

Henriet slammed a fist into Padgett's stomach. "Shut up!" he shrieked. "Stop talking! No one's going to save you!" Henriet turned back to Poitou, who was now crawling on his hands and knees in order to spread the tarp out, as if oblivious to the outburst.

"Help me up," the husky man said. Henriet extended a hand and pulled the manservant to his feet. Poitou rubbed his knees with a groan.

"Save me for Your mercies' sake," Padgett wheezed, still hunched over from the blow. He began to straighten up, proudly standing tall as he exclaimed to the heavens, "Do not let me be ashamed, O Lord, for I have called upon You; let the wicked be ashamed; let them be silent in the grave."

Henriet began to turn but Poitou grabbed his arm. "Don't forget we have a job to do," he said over the man. "I'm not asking you. Let him be."

"Let the lying lips be put to silence, which speak insolent things proudly and contemptuously against the righteous. Oh, how gre—" He was cut short as a fist collided with his jaw. Padgett's head smacked against the wall and he went limp, dazed from both blows. As he was sinking to his knees, someone grabbed his hair and pulled him to his feet.

"I already told you once to be quiet," Poitou whispered, their noses almost touching. "Guess what? Now I really do have a headache."

"Preserve me, O God, for in You, I—" Padgett slurred.

A distinct crack echoed around the chamber as the jaw bone fracture widened into a full-on break. Poitou stepped back and allowed Padgett to fall limp, held up by only the shackles around his wrists. "Imbécile," he grunted as he shook out his hand. He dug into his pants pocket and removed a pair of latex gloves. Upon turning around, he saw Henriet had already pulled his gloves on and was standing with a bored look on his shadow-covered face. Positioning himself across from his fellow manservant, Poitou began to stretch out the fingers of his gloves so they wouldn't cut off blood flow to his thick fingers.

_Drip. Drip. Drip._ Padgett watched with child-like curiosity as strands of saliva and blood fell from his mouth to the stone floor. Weakly, he raised his head to stare at the hidden ceiling, silently waiting, hoping. _Dieu…Father. Heed my prayer. Save me, Dieu. _His eyes began to frantically search the darkness above him, as if he might see Heaven itself and be saved. But no answer came. He didn't see any angels, or the smile of God.

_No…? No help?_ "W-why?" he groaned through the pain of his broken jaw.

"Ignore him," Poitou said softly to his associate when he stiffened angrily.

Padgett began the downward spiral into the deep pit of despair. His heart pounded painfully against the confines of the heaving chest as he began hyperventilating. Claustrophobia began to set in as hopelessness enveloped him in this dark room. Tears, sweat, drool, and blood ran down his face, further dirtying his ragged shirt. He was completely, unequivocally, and totally alone. His friends had betrayed him. Even god, the sole stable aspect of his life, had turned His back on him, in his most dire moment of need.

Jesus had suffered and died for the sins of humanity. _What am I suffering for?_

"…Who am _I_ saving? No one! Are you just going to let me suffer meaninglessly?" he wailed to the mute heavens. "'I will never leave you nor forsake you.' Isn't that what You said? Liar…" His words were coming in broken sobs now. "I built my life around You, giving You everything! And you turn your ba—."

The broken man hardly struggled as a soiled rag was stuffed into his mouth. Padgett merely winced in pain as a strip of cloth was wrapped around his head and tied tightly to prevent the gag from being spat out. Then he hung like a rag doll in the chains, his whimpering muted by the gag.

"That's better," Poitou said curtly.

"We should have done that years ago." Henriet smirked as his companion returned to help him with the gruesome task that lay before them.

* * *

><p>The voices were close, but sounded unnaturally muffled.<p>

"Ready?"

Hollow, too, as if the speakers were shouting to each other from opposite sides of a canyon.

"Hold on, let me get a better grip."

And yet…he knew they were close. It didn't make sense to him.

"He sure tore him up pretty good this time."

_What are they talking about?_ Padgett tried to focus on the words. He was disoriented, like he was walking through a thick fog.

"It's too slick! Hand me that rag."

Padgett forced his eyes open. His lids fluttered briefly before staying open.

"Here, I think it's a piece of his shirt." The voice sounded almost…amused.

Everything was blurred. Maybe it really was foggy. Amber light glowed from somewhere above him.

"That's better."

He blinked rapidly, trying to get his eyes to focus. The simple action that made his face ache. _Why?_

"You got him now?"

He realized he was staring at an uneven brick wall. He tried to turn around but he couldn't seem move.

"Ready when you are."

The voices were clearer now, and obviously very close. Curiously, it sounded like they were directly above him. _Are they on top of the wall…?_

"Right. Oops, hold on." With great effort, Padgett painfully lifted his head. The movement left him lightheaded. It was bright and he had to squint while his eyes adjusted. He only barely could make out the blurred shapes. "Okay, on _go_." The silhouettes seemed human enough. Padgett tried to get his fuzzy sight to focus. Yes, they were human…all three of them. Two of them were crouched at either end of the small, horizontal humanoid body. "Three…" But what were they doing _standing_ on the wall like that, defying gravity? "Two…" It took a moment for his muddled mind to slowly piece it together. "One…" They were standing on the ground. He was merely staring at floor when he awoke and had assumed it was a wall. He glanced at his supposed sun, discovering it was just a lantern spilling its light across the floor. "Go!"

The sudden movement of both crouching people standing, heaving the third person off the ground and lifting him up and over, dropping him roughly a few feet to the side. Padgett stared at the strange encounter. He reasoned that he must have been out drinking with these people. They seemed quite familiar, and he already had the pounding headache of a hangover; every heartbeat sent a wave of agony throughout his skull. Obviously he had blacked out at some point. It justified his memory loss, at least. His jaw hurt, too, so he must have gotten in a brawl during his drunken stupor. He wondered if he had been victorious.

"Try to get it all, otherwise we'll be smelling it tomorrow night."

Padgett focused again on the men—clearly they were male, their deep voices betrayed that fact— and their short friend. His eyes had adjusted to the light, at least enough for him to stop squinting, but all he could see of their shadowed figures was just that: shadows. He could make out very little detail. They were crouching where the other person had been lying a moment before. With careful and hurried care, they were scooping up something and plopping it onto their supine companion. He thought it was mud—it was a deep, dark color, a stark contrast against his deathly pale skin. Padgett stared back at the other, wondering why the two men were covering him with mud.

He blinked furiously when his eyes blurred out of focus yet again. With newfound clarity of sight, Padgett stared at the mystery in front of him, completely forgetting his own enigmatic predicament. The unconscious man was sprawled out unnaturally, stiffly, on the ground…no…he was on a _tarp_: a blue tarp, spread out on the floor. He peered closer at the man lying there…with sudden realization and extreme disapproval, he noted it was not a man. It was a boy, maybe around his early or mid-teens.

_What are they doing to him?_ He wondered, curious, if these men were perverts and this was some sort of sexual fetish. If he could have, he would have shaken his head out of disappointment and self-hatred. He clearly wasn't himself at the moment, but it upset him that he wasn't more concerned about the boy—what if these men really _were_ perverts? It was just a child, after all. That's a taboo line that shouldn't be crossed—for both legal and moral reasons. Padgett tried to call out to the lad, to ask if he needed help, but his jaw erupted painfully from even slightly moving it. He tried to groan, but he couldn't seem to find his voice. His tongue felt rough and crowded in his mouth; he couldn't even move it. Maybe he had bitten it during his brawl and it had swollen up as a result.

He blinked away the blurriness that continued to ail his sight. The boy's body was effectively covered in mud, especially around the belly. Although the mud coated his genitals in thick gobs, Padgett suspected the child was completely bare of any clothing whatsoever. His pale skin stood out in stark contrast to the dark mud.

"You missed something, there," one of the men muttered.

Padgett tore his gaze away from the boy and glanced back to the alleged perverts. One of them—likely the one who had spoken—was pointed into the nearby shadows. The other man reached out and picked up whatever it was his companion had indicated. He tossed it unceremoniously onto the boy. When it landed on the boy's chest, Padgett felt like he had been punched in the stomach; indeed, he huffed and shook with realization and anger and sadness and disgust. On the boy's chest was, undoubtedly, a length of intestine.

The shock was great: it cleared his mind and brought back the memories of before. He hadn't gone out drinking with his friends…he had been brought to this room and chained to the wall. He was abandoned by god. He had been beaten. And finally, just a few moments ago, he had awoken to find his colleagues, Poitou and Henriet, moving an unconscious—

He looked up from the floor to glare again at the youth. The boy's eyes were open, a terrifying expression frozen on his pale face. Padgett blanched and gagged, his stomach heaving. Not much came out—he hadn't eaten since yesterday—but the taste of bile still rose to his throat and burned his tongue. He wanted to spit out the vile taste, but the gag prevented him.

The _mud_ now was now very clearly a deep, dark red—blood. Sickeningly thick blood, half-clotted and mixed with bits of flesh and innards, was splattered across the floor, painting it a hue that seemed almost black in the faint light. The boy's belly had been ripped open, as if some wild animal had gone berserk with hunger, tearing him open and strewing his insides over the room during its feeding frenzy.

Padgett heaved again, with more force this time, making the chains rattle. He couldn't tear his eyes away from the young corpse in front of him. His mind was racing, overlapping one another as they fought for dominance of his brain, his will. But despite the vast number of thoughts, his mind was completely blank. In the back of his head, he knew he should try to do something, anything. But nothing happened.

…Because he could do nothing. Nothing at all.

He couldn't bring this boy back to life. He couldn't escape. He could only wait here for death to come. Not that he wanted to die—he had simply given up hope of being saved. He almost began to pray for the end to come swiftly, but he stopped himself. What was the point? It wasn't as if He was going to answer, let alone show mercy.

"'Morning, La Belle au bois dormant," Henriet said with an attempt at patronizing cheerfulness. Padgett could hardly gather the strength to glance at him in response; his eyes were glued to the mutilated body. He was staring without seeing, oblivious to his surroundings. Like he was already dead…dead to the world.

He became aware of a constant rustling that echoed around the chamber. It took him a moment to realize that his former associates were folding up the corners of the tarp, wrapping the mangled corpse up within the large blue square. Padgett supposed he should be feeling something, but he wasn't sure what. He decided that fear would probably be appropriate in his situation. Fear, horror…it didn't really matter. He wasn't able to do anything anyway, so why bother? He rationalized that it wasn't worth the effort to get upset, but whether that was a fact or just a feeble attempt to keep himself calm, he didn't know. He didn't _want_ to know.

So he merely watched as the boy disappeared into the folds of the tarp. One of the former manservants stretched a length of duct tape out and began decorating the tarp with sliver wrappings, tightly sealing the contents of the package away.

"Ready?" he heard Poitou say. He sounded far away.

"Yeah, let's go."

Padgett's eyes continued to follow the bundled tarp as Poitou helped lift it up over Henriet's shoulder. The lean man held onto the blue tarpaulin cocoon like he would a sack of grain. "Should we take the gag out?" Henriet smiled eerily.

"No, leave it. I like him like this," Poitou grunted. "Besides, we don't want his screaming to interrupt the ritual tonight." He picked up the lantern before turning for the door.

"We'll see you tomorrow night," Henriet chuckled at Padgett, patting the tarp suggestively. Then, followed swiftly by Poitou, he walked out of the room and began his careful descent down the narrow staircase. Padgett barely registered the door closing shut behind them, nor did he truly realize the claustrophobia that normally would have set in as the darkness enveloped him. He saw nothing, felt nothing: he was numb, numb to all feelings and thoughts.

Numb to everything except the excruciating pain of overwhelming fear and despair.

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><p>The darkness of the room seemed to swallow him; indeed, he could hardly manage to breathe that stale, unmoving air. If not for the knowledge that he had just shut those oak doors on the elegant corridor behind him, he might have guessed he had stumbled upon the void of Purgatory. Nowhere in the world but this place made him feel claustrophobic; already he could feel his chest tightening within the endless blackness of the room. As his eyes slowly began to adjust, he was able to make out the edges of the curtains, bordered in silver moonlight from the unshuttered window. He drew in a deep, calming breath and cleared his throat loudly. "Monsieur?"<p>

The soft rustling of bed sheets seemed to die prematurely in the still air as a rasping voice called out, "Sillè?"

Sillè absently brushed his white sleeves with the backs of his hands before drawing in a breath. "Yes," he spoke into the gloom. "I passed on the orders to Rais. He has been gone for the better part of four hours now. He should have been able to obtain a new subject for tonight's experiment. I will be retrieving them both once my obligations here have been fulfilled." Sillè's eyes had finally adjusted to the faint light—the silhouetted desk and bed frame were becoming noticeable.

After a brief moment of silence, the sounds of rustling—now also accompanied by creaking bedsprings—drifted around the room. "How are the other preparations progressing? I do understand the instructions I gave to you were more complex than the previous nights, but I needed to rest. You didn't find it too complicated, I hope…?" A threatening edge had crept into the rasping voice at the end, giving the dark room a dangerous ambiance.

Sillè stiffened. "No. They were not."

A brief instant silently passed before the darkness-enshrouded speaker responded. "You will have to forgive me," he chuckled, before falling into a dry coughing spell. When he finally recovered, his voice was much quieter than before and seemed to have a slight breathlessness to it. "When you have lived as long as I have, you will have witnessed too many mistakes to take some things lightly, especially when it's as important as this."

Sillè relaxed somewhat. "Of course, Monsieur Prelati." There was more rustling and an outline appeared, sliding into the faint light: a person sitting on the edge of the bed.

"Très bien. Now leave so I may change into my robes."

Sillè inclined his head. "I will retrieve Rais and have him bring your newest subject to the upper room." He spun on his heel and fumbled with the door handles. Finally the doors swung freely into the hall. The retort of the latches falling into place seemed to call out, their voices fading into the vastness of the empty hallway. He huffed and played with his laces for a moment as he waited for his eyes to adjust—at least enough for him to navigate the labyrinthine passages—to the now-intense light cast down from the electric chandeliers.

His eyes set in a squint, Sillè strode purposefully towards the end of the corridor. _Salaud! I despise acting submissive to him, and within my family's own abode! Disgraceful! He is of such obvious low class. It's scandalous!_ An expression of disgust appeared upon his face. _And every time I bow to him I get that horrid taste of bile in my mouth…_

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><p>He sat on the edge of the bed for several moments after the doors had clicked shut. Once he was certain that Sillè had begun the long trek down the immense corridor, he rubbed his wrinkled face with a sigh. Joints groaning from the effort, he stood.<p>

"Curse this old body!" he growled as he massaged his knees. "Humans are so fragile it makes me sick." Keeping a hand in the small of his back, he shuffled over to the window and tugged the curtains open. The low-hanging moon seemed to stare right at him as its light spilled into the room. The white-haired Prelati briefly stared out over the beautiful silhouetted city. "I know you can hear me, Francesco," he said quietly. "The only reason you're still alive is because Rais doesn't obey orders given to him by anyone but you. Appreciate the knowledge that as long as your creation is alive, so, too, will you continue to live. So…pray." Angry sarcasm crept into his voice. "Pray to your illusory Baron…pray for the wellbeing of the only _real_ demon you will ever know!"

His cackling resounded throughout the room—a parallel to the silent, grinning moon.

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><p>It was one of the few original chambers remaining, decided as it was to remain untouched by the renovations nearly a decade ago. The enormous hall was dominated by a centralized table and long benches made of time-scarred wood. Though ornate simplicity was the intended goal for the design, over the years, the room collected increasingly more elaborate decorations; now it was a mosaic of colorful tapestries, silver suits of armor, and even a pair of high-backed chairs at the far end of the room, purposefully set aside from the other furnishings. The room had not been attended to in weeks; dust had settled and clung to everything like a gray blanket. Stained glass windows filtered the moonlight in eerie pale rays of reds, blues, and yellows.<p>

But he had been born into such exquisiteness that he paid little heed to the awing space; he had grown accustomed to such things since before he can remember. This environment was natural—his niche in the world. He stalked toward the set of double doors that was along the same wall as the thrones. So often has this path been trod upon that it was free of the carpet of dust. The sound of his heels striking the wooden floor planks retorted off the walls and high ceiling angrily, an echo of his current temperament. Fitting as it was, he did not notice it.

He made a ninety-degree turn and continued his brisk pace parallel to the wall. He walked adjacently to the uninterrupted counter that bordered the room, moving swiftly to the far end of the room.

The hinges were silent as Sillè shoved open the swinging double doors into the gigantic kitchen. He made a ninety-degree turn and continued his brisk pace parallel to the wall. He walked adjacently to the uninterrupted counter that bordered the room, moving swiftly to the far end of the room. It was faster this way, he'd discovered, after his first few trips down to this part of the mansion. Before Prelati showed up, he had had no reason to. After all, a kitchen is no place for a noble.

The entire space was literally packed with counters, sinks, ovens, stoves, cabinets hanging from the ceiling, and countless drawers full of foreign cooking implements. It was maze-like; how anyone could work in this kind of labyrinthine space was difficult for him to grasp, and he was wealthy enough to never have to bother with such a plebian skill as cooking.

The far corner was his destination: a portal*, short and rectangular, one of the few original sections remaining. Stepping through it was like stepping back in time to an ancient hallway, untouched by modern marvels. Sillè hesitated not at all as the electric lighting and tiled floor of the kitchen gave way to cobbled stone walls, ground, and ceiling.

It was a short T-shaped passage; Sillè turned down the left branch at the junction, shortly emerging from another short corridor and arriving at his destination: the indoor smokehouse and a remnant of the original kitchen. A large domed-shaped hut—a smokehouse—dominated the majority of the room. Although the vent-holes gaped widely, revealing the inky sky, the thick smoke stubbornly hung in the air like an early morning fog.

Sillè quickly approached the door of the hut and pulled it open, taking a step back to hold the door at arm's length for a moment, releasing a wave of pent-up heat and smoke. He blinked rapidly as the stinging smoke made his eyes water. He pulled out his handkerchief and covered his mouth and nose as a brief fit of coughing ailed him before stepping inside. The walls were solid enough, but the domed roof reminded him of a holey ribcage, with numerous scattered slits to allow some of the smoke out. A fire burned several meters away in the shallow pit that was set into the middle of the floor.

The manservants were against the inside wall of the hut, sitting on low stools beneath the rising smoke, as far away from the middle as they physically could be without actually leaving the hut. They were shirtless—for obvious reasons—and covered in a layer of grimy sweat. Cloth masks covered their faces from the bridge of the nose down to the chin for protection against the smoke. As soon as Sillè stepped through the door, they jumped to their feet.

"Milord—" Poitou erupted into a bout of coughing and wheezing—Henriet met the same fate when he attempted to acknowledge his master as well—which was triggered by trying to speak in such a smoky environment.

"Idiots!" Sillè muttered into the handkerchief. "Make sure yesterday's experimentation subject is sufficiently destroyed this time," he said in a louder voice. His icy tone was impossible to miss. "Your sloppiness with the disposal these last few days has not gone unnoticed. Continuation of such lazy work will result in severe consequences." He gestured at the fire with his free hand. "I assume you already replaced the snack? _He_ gets viciously brutal if he isn't kept well-satisfied." Sillè bent over to retrieve the lantern that was sitting just inside the doorway.

"Yes, sir," Henriet managed to choke out.

"And be wary of the time." Sillè pushed the door open. "If you aren't in the upper room by the beginning of the experiments," he called out, now outside the insufferably sweltering hut, "I'll make sure you two are _his_ next snacks!" The door slapped shut behind him.

He continued on straight at the junction, passing by the kitchen turnoff. The lantern light seemed weak after leaving the bright, bonfire-lit smokehouse; he had to pause for a moment to allow his eyes to adjust to the darkness. Boxes, crates, barrels, cupboards, and shelves upon shelves turned the pantry into a maze. But the way was familiar to him, having walked it many times before. It was in the farthest corner that the trapdoor had been built into the stone floor. Sillè pulled upwards on the heavy wooden flap, struggling to defy gravity. With a final grunt, the hatch fell against the wall, propped open, with a dull thud.

His footsteps echoed down the curving stone stairway as he descended. The air grew stale and cold; he shivered, suddenly aware of the unnerving stillness present here. Sillè covered his nose with the handkerchief and hurried onward when he reached the bottom of the stairs. Even with the protection of the cloth, the rank stench still burned his nostrils. He kept his eyes straight ahead as he hurried forward, ignoring the quiet shuffling coming from either side of him.

Along the back wall were a dozen barrels stacked in a triangle. It was set in a way so as to disguise their true purpose—after all, who would look _behind_ whiskey barrels when the taps were already in front of you?—to hide the old escape route. It was supposed to appear to be nothing more than a part of the old sewer drainage system. The gap between the barrels and the back wall was tight, forcing Sillè to shuffle sideways. With a low oath, he bent down and crawled into the hidden passage, carefully holding the lantern out in front of him. After a few meters, it opened up into a tiny room with a thrice-barred door.

Sillè grumbled irritably. Manual labor was meant for plebeians. He set down the lantern and got to work, longing for his most hated task of the night to be done and over with, cursing Prelati under his breath. It was unbecoming to be forced to work like a commoner. Nobles were above such things. Ergo, he shouldn't have to do this demeaning chore. He dropped the last of the three beams to the floor. He strained to pull open the heavy door, tugging until he created a space just wide enough for him to slip into. He grabbed the lantern and began the long trek through the dark tunnel.

* * *

><p>*Portal—(noun) any entrance to a place, or any means of access to something. In this case, a rectangular hole in the wall for a door, but without the door, hinges, or doorframe.<p>

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><p>-Author's Note-<p>

I (finally) finished this chapter!

Thank you all for reading this, especially to those of you who have waited so patiently for me to finish this chapter. I'm sorry for taking so long. I tried to make it less irritating by posting bits and pieces as I finished them. I doubt it helped, but it made _me_ feel better for not updating.

*Ahem*

I would like to express my gratitude to everyone who has reviewed, added this story to your Story Alerts List, added this to your Favorite Stories, or any combination of the aforementioned options.

First and foremost, a big thanks to **TheManInTheHat** for being the first person to review this story! You are a true gentleman, sir. Thank you.

I extend my appreciation to **CherriiBee216**, **chevalier of death**, **PrankK1ng**, **sen whitefox mako red demon**, and** Vein's Simply Tired**. Thanks for everything!

I hope all of you will come back and continue reading this story!

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><p>.<p>

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Posted: Fall 2011

Completed: 1-13-2012

Updated: 1-20-2012

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Thank you for reading this.  
>Writing is what makes an author happy. Reviews make the author feel important. Asking for more makes the author feel needed and loved. Striving towards that feeling is part of what keeps me writing.<p>

- please don't let me down -


	6. The Marionette

**CHAPTER SIX — THE MARIONETTE**

Her heart pounded in her chest, gently rocking her where she stood. Each slow breath was a struggle. Every movement had to be a conscious one, deliberately chosen. Footsteps had to be gentle, so as not to disturb the gritty dry sand and dirt that settled between the cobbles; feet must be lifted up and set down without dragging the soles of the boots else the sound would erupt, bouncing off walls so close that she could reach out and touch both at the same time. Isabelle laid her hand against the rough bricks, as if she could feel the creature behind the stone and plaster surface, feel its anger, its hunger, its Madness. She shuddered.

The gentle tugging on her shirt sleeve eased her attention back to the task at hand. "RELAX," Sven signed. He wrote each letter with his fingers slowly to allow her enough time to decipher the gestures in the gloom. Isabelle nodded once. No moonbeams made it into the alley; it streamed through the darkness a few yards away, out in the road. The soft light silhouetted her companion's body; his face was completely hidden to her, obscured by shadows. But she knew he could see her as if it were high noon.

He was watching, waiting for her to calm down. He wouldn't tolerate anything but perfectly executed discipline during a hunt, and she was getting close to stepping outside the boundaries he had drawn for her. Isabelle gave a slow nod and closed her eyes. She placed her fingers to her neck, searching for her pulse. Counting her heartbeats was a trick Sven had suggested as a way to pacify herself. Whether it was a scientific miracle or a mental phenomenon, she didn't know. But it always seemed to work.

Sven tugged on her sleeve again just as she was about to make it into the triple digits. Isabelle opened her eyes. "Wait here," he signed. "I will be right back. I am going to try to get a look at what we are dealing with." He hesitated a moment. "Stay calm." She nodded and, keeping her eyes open this time, resumed counting her heartbeats. With feathery steps, he turned and stalked towards the moonlit street.

Sven waited, back against the wall, before cautiously peeking around the corner. All clear. Careful not to allow his clothing to rub against the rough brickwork and give him away, he slipped around the corner out into the street. Staying low as he passed under the boarded-up window, he crept over to the door. He paused, breath held, and listened. The silence of the empty city streets whispered in his ears. He ignored the pressing quiet, sought what lay beyond, and soon the muffled sounds from within the dilapidated tavern reached him: it was a regular pattern, constant, beginning with a dull rustling noise that lasted several seconds before an even briefer gap of silence broke it off, only for the noise to begin again. With deliberate controlled slowness, he shakily released his pent-up breath, repressing the instinct to fill his lungs with air.

The warped door hung open slightly; the creature hidden inside still hadn't bothered to close it. From his position, Sven could see through the thin space between the door and frame. The grinning moon colored the streets a sickening yellow, casting a skinny slash of moonlight faintly across wood boards of the floor of the tavern. His head disrupted the ribbon of light as he leaned closer over to peer through the gap. He blinked to adjust his eyes to the near black inside of the building.

It was a one-room tavern that once housed rather homely décor, but presently boasted a remarkable state of wreck. Chairs, tables, and barstools were destroyed and scattered throughout the room. The mounted back bar stood empty behind the long counter that stretched parallel to the back wall. In the center of the room, amid the ruins, was a bulging burlap bag. A figure crouched next to it, caressing the sack as if it were petting some dozing cat.

The once-human was half facing the door; Sven understood how fortunate he was that the creature hadn't noticed him. A wide, lustful eye glared down from a shroud of chin-length brown hair. The unkempt beard, broken by a smirk, obscured its face like a bandana. It was stark naked except for a red-spattered white gentleman's blouse hanging loosely around its shoulders.

It looked human enough, but Sven knew better than anyone never to trust mere appearances. This was undoubtedly their target. The being's Madness emanated menacingly outward, corrupting everything around its twisted host. Sven's skull prickled and his hair stood on end. A sudden dull headache—irritating throbs across his mind, synchronized with his heartbeats—made him grimace.

The Evil Human was much more powerful than predicted.

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><p>Bony fingers rubbed the surface of the sack tenderly. It was such a beautiful thing; he wanted it now. But he knew better than to sate himself here. The consequences for gorging himself right here and now were vastly outweighed by the reward he would soon receive for his task. A sudden breeze gently slapped the door against the frame and sent a breath of cool air into the room. The Evil Human raised his nose and inhaled deeply. He whirled around to face the entrance, still on his haunches, hand placed protectively on the bag. The door wobbled momentarily from the breeze, and then all was still; moonlight outlined the frame uninterrupted, perfectly silhouetting the warped wood. A tranquil moment passed. His attention returned to the sack, fingers tenderly stroking the coarse weave, convinced all was well.<p>

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><p><strong><strong>XXXXXXXXXXXXX<strong>XXXXXXXXXXXXX<strong>XXXXXXXXXXXXX<strong>**XXXXXXXXXXXXX****XXXXXXXXXXXXX****XXXXXXXXXXXXX**XXXXXX**XXXXXXXXXXXXX**XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX  
><strong><strong>XXXXXXXXXXXXX<strong>XXXXXXXXXXXXX<strong>XXXXXXXXXXXXX<strong>**XXXXXXXXXXXXX****XXXXXXXXXXXXX****XXXXXXXXXXXXX**XXXXXX**XXXXXXXXXXXXX**XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX************

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><p>-Author's Note-<p>

Thank you for reading this chapter! On the off chance that you read the first few chapters as well, then thanks for that, too! For those of you who have so kindly waited for this chapter, I offer my gratitude and an enormous apology to you. At the risk of being accused of making excuses, I can explain: college. I've gotten into writing poetry again (Thanks, Pat!), which is what I have been writing instead of this. Most of my poems are posted on FictionPress (I have the same pen name). Am I advertising my own works? Yes. Am I shameless? Kinda. (Read my poems.)

Big thanks to **A Sword for the Swordless** for the incredibly uplifting review and for adding this story to your Favorites and Story Alerts! You're welcome back here anytime.

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Posted: 5-11-2012

Updated: 5-11-2012

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Thank you for reading this.  
>Writing is what makes an author happy. Reviews make the author feel important. Asking for more makes the author feel needed and loved. Striving towards that feeling is part of what keeps me writing.<p>

- please don't let me down -


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